It's Called: Freefall

|Scratch, Kick|

Quick clarification: It was not Schlatt that attacked George. It may have sort of seemed like it, but it wasn't and that's sort of important to remember for future chapters :)

Trauma, yippee. Also lemme know if there are typos & I'll fix them.

Anyways, comment while you read & vote! Enjoy <3

George couldn't get anymore rest. He twisted and turned but couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. With him. He could almost the feel warm, stale breath on his neck and it nearly made him gag.

He got up after probably an hour of suffering. George sat on the edge of his bed for a moment as his head throbbed. He'd have to get used to sitting up.

Finally deciding to just power through the headache at the realization that it wasn't going away, George found himself in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He dragged his feet to the living room, where he squinted at the light from the sliding glass door in their living room that led to the small balcony that was a staple for every apartment in the complex.

"You look like you're about to pass out," Dream commented. George hadn't realized he was in the kitchen, leaning over the counter to his right, and he jumped a bit.

Composing himself, he snarked, "That's because I am."

"I don't know why you say that as if you're proving something to me."

George flipped Dream off smoothly and mumbled something less than pleasant under his breath.

"You need to go lay down," Dream said with a hint of concern.

George ignored it, turning around and going back down the hallway, putting a lot of his weight against the wall as he went. "I need to shower," he mumbled.

At the end of the short hallway, George locked himself in the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror for a second. His hair was sticking up in a few place, there were bags under his eyes, and with how bloodshot they were— along with being a little dilated still— he realized he definitley looked high.

That's when he noticed something on his neck. There was a little reddish-purple mark. He stared at it for a moment, and he felt as his his stomach was doing flips. He wanted to throw up.

The breath on George's neck and soft pressure against it while pressed against the brick wall suddenly flashed in his mind. The remembrance of the thick smell of alcohol bounced around in his head.

George wanted to scream. Anger pooled in his lungs as if he had inhaled magma. He wanted the claw the skin off his neck as he stared at the spot on his neck. The discolored skin stared back at him.

He hadn't realized what had happened while it was happening. He hadn't realized the extent of what could've happened. He hadn't realized, but he was pissed, because George didn't want this thing on his neck. Especially not from the lips of some random man. He suddenly wondered shamefully if Dream had seen it, and what he had thought if he had.

George spun around quickly from where he was leaning over the sink— probably a little too fast considering the little specks of color that clouded his vision for a moment— and turned on the shower. It hadn't even warmed up before he got in.

He scrubbed at his neck, hopelessly trying to get the spot off; it did nothing but leave his neck raw and red. He knew it wouldn't work, but he wanted it gone. Blood that had dried in his hair stained the water and trickled down the drain. He was careful with the back of his head, where he knew he got hit.

After awhile, George knew he was completely clean, but he didn't quite feel like it. He felt like the air pollution from outside was still clinging to him and like the mark on his neck was something fucking disgusting that he needed to get rid of but couldn't— and, he supposed, it was.